


Smile In The Smoke

by gaialux



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Time, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: Snow, travel, and friendship that turns to love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 86
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Smile In The Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> Thank you to Prim for her FTH donation. I hope you enjoy this cute little fic!

It’s snowing for the first time Jaskier can remember in centuries. Geralt is looking in awe at the falling white puffs and Jaskier can’t help but smile. 

“Enjoy it now,” Jaskier says. He kicks at the slop on the ground. “Once we’re ankle-deep in frigid ice you won’t be smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” Geralt says, turning away. 

“There is something to be said about your stoicism.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They continue on in silence, Geralt keeping his face turned away but Jaskier is sure he’s still smiling. Call it Witcher instinct or just plain friendship: he can tell. The lute on Geralt’s back is slowly being covered by an icy sheen and Geralt shivers. Just slightly. 

“Should have bought us some horses,” Jaskier remarks. 

“We’re fine.”

Only the snow picks up and it fast becomes obvious they’re  _ not _ fine. Neither of them are wearing furs or even recently treated wool. The cold cuts right through and turns Jaskier’s chest hollow.

Jaskier could load himself up on elixirs but he knew the same couldn’t be done for humans. And if Jaskier is feeling the weather, it would be a tenfold for the bard. 

“We’ll stop up here,” he says, expecting at least some pretence of an argument.

Instead, Geralt gives a gruff, “Yep,” and that’s the end of any potential argument. He must be freezing. The fact doesn’t make Jaskier feel any better.

They turn off the horse- and foot- forged path and into a thickening brush. Snow drops off the branches as they plow their way through, but it’s instantly warmer. The old trees — oaks, mostly, by the looks of things — rise together to form a canopy. It’s dry in the undergrowth, the only breeze coming from the break formed by a nearby river. Geralt stops. Jaskier heeds and drops the saddlebags he’d been carrying slung over his shoulders and undoes the rope holding his bedroll in place. The rest of their supplies consisted of a menial first aid kit, a threadbare blanket, five coins, and several elixirs. They were travelling low. Jaskier would have to find work soon. 

Meanwhile, Geralt is collecting dry branches and twigs to build the teepee of a fire. He’s stronger than a bard should be; thick, sinewy muscles rippling under his skin as he picks up a particularly large log and tosses it into the heap. Jaskier looks away and busies himself working on a fire spell.

“Hurry up,” Geralt says soon, sitting beside Jaskier and rubbing his hands together. There’s a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. Cooling by now, Jaskier supposes.

“Igni,” Jaskier murmurs as his hands form a symbol over the pile of wood. Flames leap forth and lick toward the sky. Geralt shuffles closer. “Do I even get a thank you?”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and pokes a stick at the fire. More sparks shoot out. Around them, a few stray snowflakes break through the canopy and reach the leaf-littered floor. 

“I’ve never seen the snow,” Geralt says quietly.

“I assumed as much.” Jaskier smiles. “I’ve seen it less than I can count on one hand.”

He holds up his fingers and wiggles them around. Then takes it a step further and draws a sigel. A burst of light illuminates them both before quickly dying away.

“Show off,” Geralt says.

“You’re a  _ bard _ ,” Jaskier counters. “Your own job is to show off.”

Geralt grumbles something under his breath and Jaskier can only smile.

“I could teach you. A few lessons, at least. It’s not only sorcerers and mutants who can wield magic.”

Geralt lays back, lacing his fingers behind his head rather than reaching them out like Jaskier had hoped. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

They lapse back into a comfortable silence. Jaskier considers asking Geralt to play a tune — hasn’t he shared a talent? — but the bard’s eyelids already look heavy. Even as Jaskier watches, they close and shoot back open before starting their descent again. 

Jaskier reaches again into his saddlebag and produces two blankets. He tosses one at Geralt. “Sleep.”

They both lay under the blankets, Jaskier with his saddlebags for a pillow and Geralt content with a sideways log. The fire continues before them, emitting a pleasant warmth that starts at Jaskier’s toes and travels upwards. His own eyes begin to fall and, soon, he falls into dreams.

*

Jaskier wakes in the night to snow melting through his blanket and Geralt shivering next to him. Their fire was smoldered out, only the vaguest hint of red coal still visible. One of them — Jaskier can’t tell who in the darkness of the sky and blast of snow — must have moved closer to the other. Subconscious, maybe, but undeniable.

“Geralt,” he whispers. Then, louder, “Geralt. Wake up before you freeze.”

“I’m not asleep,” Geralt says between chattering teeth. “Got some spell in there for a fire?”

“Not one that can compete against snow,” he says. “If you hadn’t sent away Yen—“

“Shut up.” Geralt’s voice is a warning. 

“Okay,” Jaskier says, softer. “Okay.”

“How about an extra blanket?”

Jaskier lifts the blanket he’s under and gestures for Geralt to get in. 

Geralt hesitates.

“Do you want the blanket or not?”

He relents and shuffles over the few inches needed to be under the blanket and flush against Jaskier’s side. It’s immediately warmer and Geralt’s shivering begins to subside. 

“Better?”

Geralt says something indistinguishable in reply but Jaskier thinks it must mean ‘yes’. 

Jaskier ventures a hand out of their warm cocoon and attempts to the-start the fire. The wood must be too wet. A small ball of fire appears, smoulders black, and disappears into the earth. Jaskier gives up and snuggles back into their makeshift bed. 

*

When Jaskier wakes again, it’s warmer and he realises Geralt is closer. Their blankets are a bundled mess over and between them. It’s Geralt’s arm keeping Jaskier warm. 

“Geralt,” he says. A normal-volume voice right away this time. He tries to crane a look over his shoulder, to see Geralt’s face and watch his eyes open. 

“I’m awake,” Geralt says. “Too ruddy cold to sleep.”

“And your arm…?” Jaskier prompts, shrugging his shoulder up. 

“Since you’ve been asleep, I would say you are evidently  _ less _ cold.”

So it was on purpose. Okay. 

“I can stop,” Geralt says and goes to move away. Jaskier thinks it’s the first time he’s ever heard Geralt sound so uncertain.

He puts his hand on Geralt’s. Holds him still. “No,” he says. His own voice wavers just a little. “It’s okay.”

Then, somehow summoning confidence without need of a spell, he drags Geralt even closer. Geralt doesn’t pull away. He does the exact opposite, allowing his body to draw flush against Jaskier’s. Crotch pressed to Jaskier’s ass. And Jaskier can feel him. Warm.  _ Hard _ . Even when Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand, shock coursing through him, Geralt travels his fingers lower and cups his hand on Jaskier’s rapidly growing cock.

Jaskier sucks in a breath and holds. Is he still dreaming?

“Is this okay?” Geralt asks. 

Definitely a dream. Geralt could never be so polite. All the same, Jaskier nods. Then, realising it’s too dark, squeaks out a, “Yes.”

“Good.”

If this is a dream, Jaskier’s mind has focused too much on Geralt during waking hours, because that is certainly Geralt’s gruff voice, Geralt’s sweet yet strangely bitter breath, and Geralt’s long white hair tickling Jaskier’s neck. It’s also Geralt’s callused hand working under Jaskier’s trousers. The touch is like fire and Jaskier’s cold body pushes toward it. 

Tiredness has fled Jaskier’s body and the thought he should really get the fire going again flashes through his mind. Absurd. But maybe his mind needs to focus on something else so he doesn’t go utterly insane with the reality—

Geralt twists his hand and Jaskier gives a muffled cry. Then, honest to the gods, Geralt actually  _ laughs _ . It’s free and giving and fills the entire surroundings. 

“You like that, huh?” He says, soft and hot against Jaskier’s ear. 

“Yes,” is all Jaskier can manage to say. He’s torn between wanting to push deeper into Geralt’s hand and wanting to feel the heat of his hardness by pushing back. Neither wins out and he ends up rocking against Geralt instead. 

A mistake that feels so good. Geralt’s hand works faster and Jaskier is powerless to hold out. With another cry — this time loud, tossed out into the snow and wind — he comes. Geralt works him through it, slows, and finally removes his hand as Jaskier’s aftershocks disperse.

“Wow,” Jaskier says when his thick tongue figures out how to form words again. “That— just wow.”

Geralt gives another burst of that beautiful, bright laughter. “And it warmed us up, too.”

That part’s true. Jaskier is sweating, breathing hard. He turns over to take in Geralt’s own flushed face in the moonlight. He ventures a chance to reach out and cup Geralt’s cheek. Geralt turns and gently kisses his palm. Jaskier’s heart swells. 

“Sleep,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier does. 

  
  



End file.
